


Walk By Faith

by SumthinClever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, eventual angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumthinClever/pseuds/SumthinClever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John deals with no longer having Sherlock in his life. Post fall fic. Eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk By Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! My post fall fic is in the works! No telling how much angst this will contain, but I expect it to have some, if not loads.   
> Thanks to Keri and Cami for the beta/content help! :D

It had been over a year since Sherlock’s death. One year, two months, four days, twelve hours, thirteen minutes, and an ever increasing number of seconds, but who was counting?

Some days, John thought his breathing had returned to normal. It hadn’t, not quite, but it was getting there. He’d been in a daze from what he termed “The Fall” through Sherlock’s funeral.

Closed casket. Mycroft had demanded. But John didn’t necessarily think he needed to see Sherlock like that anyway. A man that was almost nothing but restless or tireless energy in such a static state.... No, John had definitely been better without seeing that again.

But he’d nearly hyperventilated upon returning to Baker Street. The place still _felt_ like Sherlock. But that flat contained no mad genius, no consulting detective, no life.

Right then that flat inhabited nothing but ghosts. And John was one of them.

John had broken down then- his knees had hit the floor, his head hung heavy, letting the repressive weight of emptiness burden his shoulders. It was a weight he hadn’t felt since the day he’d met Sherlock.

And there wasn’t enough _air_. John sucked in what he could, could feel his lungs working over-hard. But his breathing wouldn’t level out. He hasn’t been able to breathe right since.

But John stayed at Baker Street. The thought of moving had occurred to him a time or two and been immediately, forcibly rejected. He’d rather live with the ghost of Sherlock than have nothing left of him.

And John had tried dating again, about six months after The Fall. It was the advice of the therapist he had all but been forced back to by everyone- Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, even Molly. They all told him to move on. Stop letting a dead man rule his life.

And John had tried. It was mostly to stave off the crushing loneliness, but also to prove to himself and everyone else that he was strong enough to get through this. He had lost people before. Hell, loss was a natural state for doctors, especially ones that had been in the military.

But no loss before or since had ever been this all consuming.

No relationship he’d tried, three in all over the last six or so months, had managed to last longer than a few weeks. How could he devote himself to anyone else when he was still so very much Sherlock’s? No, he wasn’t running around after him anymore, but the ghost of Sherlock now followed John everywhere. Was present wherever he went, whatever he did, whomever he was with. And everyone felt him.

He was in John’s thoughts, his words, his actions.

Sometimes John had still found himself making two cups of tea when only one was needed.

Or turning down the telly because he knew it disturbed Sherlock when he was thinking.

 Or making room in the fridge away from the food for the next dead body part that would inevitably call it home before an experiment.

But no one drank the second cup of tea. No one complained about the volume. There were no more experiments.

John’s relationships failed because half of a person cannot make a whole man, try as he might. He was bringing less to the table than his partners had needed. And they were definitely less than he needed. Not tall enough. Not slim enough. No messy black hair. No maddening, endearing personality quirks. No impressive jumps in logic. Not Sherlock.

But at least he’d gotten brave enough to _try_ at relationships. Immediately after Sherlock’s death, John couldn’t function. It’s not that he chose not to function, he just couldn’t. He spent long days in bed forgoing food and bathroom breaks. He felt like Sherlock- spending hours upon hours inside his own head and to hell with the rest of the world. He barely moved unless Mrs. Hudson showed up and forced food down his throat, or made him bathe, or pushed him out the door so he could get some fresh air and she could clean the flat.

It took a month for him to return to work. People tiptoed around him, being extra careful not to mention Sherlock’s name to him. But he saw the looks. Heard the whispers that still floated through the city. _Fake Genius_. How he must have felt such a fool to be following Sherlock around. Or maybe he was part of the conspiracy. He had tricked them all.

Of course people believed the lies. Sherlock had never endeared himself to anyone really. Had never cared for anyone’s opinion besides John’s and sometimes Mrs. Hudson’s. They had hated him for his intellect. They were more than happy to believe it was never real to begin with.

John ignored all of this. He knew the truth. Nothing Sherlock had ever told him was a lie. Well, nothing serious anyway.

John had gone about his life on autopilot. He got up, he bathed, he ate, he went to work, he came home, he ate, he slept. That was what a normal person did. That was the life of the unbroken, of the whole.

Every week or so he would go down to pub with Lestrade. He knew it was a way for Greg to check up on him. They didn’t have much to talk about anymore, not without their common factor. John wondered why Lestrade did it. Why he cared. Did he feel like he owed John something? Owed something to Sherlock?

Still, it was nice sometimes. To be out with someone. To have actual life around him. To go somewhere besides home and work. Sherlock would have called John’s life then boring. But John could use a little boring right at that point. A little stability, normalcy while he tried to rebuild himself from the ashes of his former life.

But that was months ago. Sherlock had been gone over a year now and John was... well, he was healing. He didn’t think he would ever quite be whole again. And that was alright. Every loss took a little bit out of a person. John thought he was finally putting himself back together as well he could.

He went out with Mike again. It was good to hear about his family. His wife working on some new recipe. His oldest daughter getting ready to go off to uni. It was good to laugh again. Humour of any kind had been in less than short supply for John of late. It made John feel a part of the world again. He’d set himself apart for long enough.

And had him thinking of families again. He hadn’t considered that option in years. It was a dream he’d long since forgotten, an ideal future had anyone bothered to ask what he wanted out of his life. A wife, a couple of kids. A small house. Someone to come home to everyday and tell about his work. A comfortable place to call his own.

He’d forgotten to want any of that while he was with Sherlock. Sure, he’d dated, but he hadn’t really been committed to any of those relationships. He’d passed through girls so often that he’d confused their favourite things, their habits, even their names. That was not the mark of a man looking to settle down. That was a mark of a sexually eager teenager.

And John had felt young with Sherlock. Had forgotten that he was getting older. That he was an invalided soldier sent home from war. That he was nearly useless. His life was suddenly active and exciting and he’d found his spark again in a tall man with a deceptive smile and all-seeing eyes.

And though John’s life would never again be the blazing inferno it was with Sherlock, he thought he could build his dying embers back up to a merry flame with someone else. He thought he could be happy again. He wouldn’t rush into anything, but he was finally open to the possibility of love, of life with someone else again.

John went out with Lestrade a couple of months later. His divorce was finally final and he was looking to celebrate. Strip clubs weren’t really John’s thing, but hey, this was Greg’s night.

John watched the scantily clad girls gyrate around the stage, shimmying themselves along poles. They pranced around in heels sure to have their feet protesting. Some wore heels so high John wondered how they didn’t topple over.

The display was arousing. How could it not be? The profusion of breasts and arses on show were lovely sights, fake and altered as some of them were.

But they didn’t stir John quite enough. He was nowhere near tempted to throw money in their direction the way Greg and a few of his friends were. John watched Greg tuck a bill into a girl’s G-string as she flashed him a hundred-watt smile full of recently whitened teeth. Had to keep herself marketable, he supposed.

John sat at a table a bit apart. A man in the crowd but not truly of it.

A girl with ample breasts and lavish curves wrapped in a skin-tight skirt and top approached him. He saw her eyes flash. Desire. For him or for what she thought she could get out of him?

“Hi. I’m Luscious,” she said.

Yes. She was.

“Care for a dance?”

Her smile was wicked. Promises of desires untold and pleasures in abundance.

John was tempted. The girl was stunning. And he hadn’t gotten physical with anyone in months. But as he looked at her face, stripped her of her concealing makeup and other artifice, he could tell she was young. A girl not quite half his age, but at _least_ a decade his junior and quite young enough to make him feel a bit like a pervert for even considering her in a sexual way. A year or so younger and this girl could be his daughter.

He flashed her an apologetic smile.

“No thanks.”

The brightness in her gaze dimmed a bit. Disappointment. John still couldn’t decide if it was for his rejection or the loss of opportunity for more money.

John saw another flash in her eyes. Determination?

“You sure I can’t convince you?” she purred in his ear, wrapping himself around him.

John cringed, the daughter image still fresh in his mind. He stood abruptly, dislodging the girl from himself, and stepped away. She let out a huff as she conceded and walked away to try to tempt some other patron.

John was done here. He looked over at Greg again, getting friendly with another of the models. She looked genuinely happy to entertain him. John wondered if it was the cash flow or that salt and pepper George Clooney thing Greg had going for him. Either way, John doubted his presence would be missed, but he could at least tell Greg he was leaving.

His friend bid him stay with a token protest that was soon abandoned in light of another young thing approaching dressed in all of nothing. Then John’s entire existence was forgotten in favour of Greg’s libido.

John wandered out into the street. He had no aim in particular. He just needed to get away from the meat market. He spotted a small cafe down the street and made his way there.

He nursed a cup of coffee and a raspberry jam Danish and stared out into nothingness. He thought back over the last fourteen months of his life. The first one was a blur. All he recalled was pain and a prayer for numbness from a missing that was so bad he ached with it. The next three were so the same that he couldn’t tell them apart. He was static, stoic. Nothing moved him and he went about a routine that allowed him to call himself alive, even if he wasn’t really living. The following two held his therapist urging him to reengage. To get back out into the world and interact with people. To let someone else in, actually in, not the pseudo in he pretended with her. So that sixth month saw John dating.

Amber was the first. He met her through Greg. That lasted less than two weeks. She was nice and lovely and funny and not Sherlock.

The second was Danielle. He’d met her at the park toward the end of that sixth month. She’d struck up a conversation with him while he sat himself on a bench and pretended to be involved with the world. And she was lovely. She had an interest in classical literature and music and could discuss them in depth, probably for hours. Not that John gave her that long. Her musical talks made him think of Sherlock playing the violin and it was really all downhill from there. That lasted about three weeks.

The third was Ethan, a drunk one night stand with a gym buddy that lasted longer than a night because John couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He hadn’t been anything with a man since the army. And those quick hand- or blowjobs to take the edge off really didn’t count as relationships. Ethan lasted the longest. Six weeks. He was a former navy man, so they talked about the war. With Ethan, John traded one memory of loss for another. But Ethan somehow made both pains less severe. He could actually make John laugh sometimes. He could make John forget, for just a little while, that his best friend was gone. And he helped John realise his rather flexible sexuality.

John and Ethan ended because Ethan moved. They weren’t in a serious enough relationship, weren’t committed enough for Ethan to have asked John to come with him, or for John to agree. Still, the parting was sad. John felt rather alone again. But he had a bit of renewed hope. Maybe he could love again. He didn’t have to stay dead with Sherlock.

Then his evening with Mike had him thinking of families again. And now he was out with Greg watching young girls exploit their sexuality for money. John sighed. Quite a turn his life had taken.

Someone sitting down opposite him had John blinking and looking up, broken from his musing of his recent life.

“You looked like you could use a distraction,” the girl who’d sat down said.

No, not girl. Woman. She was perhaps a few years younger than John himself, but she had such vitality about her that he’d originally thought her younger.

“Hi, I’m Ana.”

She held a hand out and John automatically shook it, absently noting the differences in their skin tones. His, a tanned cream, hers, a smooth milk chocolate.

Her smile didn’t hold any fear, despite the fact that she’d just sat at a stranger’s table with no idea how she’d be received. John was sure that even if he did rebuff her, she’d just take her smiles and her life and her portable sunshine elsewhere.

But John didn’t want to send her away. Besides the automatic attraction, because there was definitely that, he was curious about a woman that gave off nothing but a care free attitude.

He got her talking, which she could do a mile a minute without cease if he didn’t interject here and there. She was so lit up with everything she discussed. She was light. John had almost forgotten what it was like to talk to someone that was knowledgeable about so many topics.

She wasn’t as bright as Sherlock had been, but honestly, who was? But she was far from dim.

She was an artist. Worked with whatever medium she could get her hands on. She drew, she painted, she sculpted, she photographed, she wrote, she danced, she sang, she played. She travelled for inspiration and spoke several languages.

She was fascinating, this natural result of artistic parents and relative of gallery owners and concert hall musicians.

She was a whirlwind, and John was happily being swept up in her gale.

So began the new chapter in John’s life. It was called Anastasia. 


End file.
